


The Greatest Gift

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Fluff, Guilt, M/M, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Self-Loathing, Sibling Incest, Smut, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 03:58:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14729531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: A day after Sherrinford, Mycroft is feeling heavily guilty. When a present gets delivered to his office, it's a nice surprise, if it only came from the right man... Which it does of course.





	The Greatest Gift

# 1

 

“Sir?” His PA's voice, patient, friendly and a little concerned, would have startled him if he hadn't felt so numb.

“Hm?” He forced himself to look up.

“Could you sign that for me, please?”

“Oh, sure.” Mycroft took his pen and scribbled his name under the contract Anthea had put onto his desk without him even noticing it. He didn’t bother reading it first – if she had taken care of it, it had to be perfect.

He barely noticed when she left again but he did register her worried looks.

Perhaps he should have stayed at home today. Get some rest. But what would it have changed? He would have thought about it all day, torturing his brain, dealing with the remains of his… well, soul.

He had failed so enormously that it was almost laughable. The smart one, he had used to called himself. Ha. Smart compared to whom? A monkey? A piece of wood? Donald Trump?

He had not believed Sherlock and John Watson that they had met Eurus. _It isn’t possible_ , he had kept telling them, smug and convinced he couldn’t be wrong. _It can't have been her_ , he had stupidly repeated. He had gotten them there to prove that he was right, had put them into a danger and through a nightmare he had never foreseen. Blindly and stupidly he had acted the way Eurus had wanted him to, running into her trap. People had died. In his presence. Due to his stupidity.

He had looked into the muzzle of a gun, held by Sherlock. And he had been ready to go, ready to pay for his failures and then instead he'd had to watch Sherlock pointing the bloody weapon at himself. Then everything had gone dark after a sharp pain in his neck, and the next thing he could remember was being woken up by the police that Sherlock had sent to Sherrinford.

The next hours had been the frantic try to make it better. Arrest the treacherous guards, order in trustworthy substitutes, secure the shaken, unresponsive Eurus when they had brought her back, then finally go home in the helicopter that had carried her, accompanied by a worried Lestrade, who had kept handing him tea from a Thermos flask and good words. He had taken the tea but he had not listened to the words, and he had entered the limousine that would bring him home alone, assuring the DI that he was absolutely fine. _Fine, my arse…_

He had showered off the sweat and the dirt with water as hot as he could endure it, but it had not washed off the guilt and the shock and the regrets.

With a big drink he had settled in his armchair afterwards, staring into the darkness, his phone switched off. He had loathed himself for another hour before dragging his exhausted self to bed.

And after only two hours of sleep, he had returned to work. Now he was sitting at his desk, but before Lady Smallwood and Sir Edwin had demanded and received answers, and he had Anthea set a meeting with the PM to explain the disaster to him as well. It was time to go there now and he couldn’t have looked forward to it any less.

*****

An hour later he stumbled out of the Prime Minister's office, feeling completely numb after being yelled at almost the entire time _(“What a mess!” “What will the public think of us now?!” “The family of the governor will sue us to the last penny!” “How could you lose control over your sister in such a way?!”)_. Mycroft was simply not used to being the reason for his boss to get upset and loud but he knew he deserved it, and he had apologised again and again, almost expecting to be fired. He had failed and he had to pay the price.

He was just so glad _Sherlock_ hadn't paid it.

The fact of the matter was - if Sherlock had died in Sherrinford, thanks to his failures, he would have put an end to his own life without hesitation. There was no life for him without Sherlock, as complicated as their relationship might be. His brother was the only person in this world, apart from their parents, he really and deeply cared about, and while his relationship with his mother and father was distant but friendly, the relationship with Sherlock was full of turmoil, resentments and yet far from being distant. He loved Sherlock from the bottom of his heart, sod this _caring is not an advantage_ crap.

_You just never wanted him to care for anyone else than you..._

As sad and pathetic as this was, he had to agree with his inner voice on that point. He had always craved for Sherlock's attention, Sherlock's affection – not very successfully but he had never ceased to long for it. He had never dared show or tell Sherlock how much he cared for him, knowing it would fall on deaf ears and cause him only pain.

 _Still not over your inappropriate obsession_ mocked the inner voice.

He sighed. No, not really. The events of the previous night had brought them to memory very strongly. As if he could ever forget about it… Slowly he walked towards his office. He should go home, try to do some work from there.

_As if that would work…_

“Shut up,” he mumbled when he entered Anthea's office. She was on the phone and gave him a questioning look. He shook his head, crossed the room and opened the door to his own realm. And narrowed his eyes. There was a big carton standing on his desk.

He stepped closer and saw that it was a speed delivery from a courier, addressed to him. No sender mentioned.

Knowing it had been checked for safety or it would have never been put into his office, he lifted it. It was pretty light for its size. He took a pair of scissors out of his drawer and opened it up.

“It was delivered a couple of minutes ago,” Anthea startled him from behind.

“They didn’t say where it comes from, no?”

“No, sir. I asked but they couldn't tell me. Oh. That's… nice.”

Mycroft took the content of the carton. It was big and dark red and very soft. A blanket. Who the hell was sending him a blanket? Then he groaned. It was pretty clear, wasn’t it?

“Sir?”

“Nothing. Please call them and ask if they can remember who brought it to the courier office.” He actually knew where it came from but he wanted to be sure.

“Yes, sir.” Anthea took the empty card box with the delivery number and left the room.

It was actually not her job but he hardly ever asked her for personal favours so he didn’t mind this abuse of her work time overly much and he knew she didn’t, either.

He sat down and couldn’t help but touching the soft, thick fabric. He was touched against his will.

“Sir?”

“Yes?” He looked up expectantly.

“The employee who spoke with the customer couldn’t remember much, but he said it was a man, a rather old one, but he couldn’t describe him.”

“Thank you,” he said, seeing his suspicion confirmed.

Damn… He took out his phone and typed a text. He did prefer to make phone calls but he couldn’t really do that now.

_Gregory, thank you very much. That was a very nice gesture. Mycroft Holmes_

The answer came instantly.

_No problem. I wish I could do more. I hope you are doing alright. X Greg Lestrade_

_I'm fine, thank you. Have a nice day. M. Holmes_

Mycroft sighed. He should have seen that coming… He stroked over the blanket again. It was very nice indeed. But he really couldn’t deal with a detective inspector in love with him…

*****

He was feeling a bit better the next day. He managed to concentrate on the reports he had to read and memorise, and he only thought half of the time about his stupidity regarding Eurus.

When he had just come back from a quick lunch, his phone informed him about a message. He was surprised to say the least.

_Hey. Everything alright with you? SH_

Mycroft allowed himself a short, sad smile at his phone, then he replied.

_Yes, brother dear. How are you and John coping? Mycroft_

He knew he should have called Sherlock and John the day before. But he just couldn’t do that… He was amazed that Sherlock had asked him about his well-being instead of yelling at him.

_We're fine. Living at his flat now until Baker Street is habitable again. Listen. Can you arrange for me to see Eurus? And we need to talk to our parents. When they come back from their holidays today, they shouldn’t learn it from the newspapers… SH_

Mycroft groaned. He had actually totally forgotten about this. Of course he would have to explain their parents that their daughter was still alive. He could imagine this conversation all too well. _And by the way, she's become a monster. More tea?_

But… what was that? That Sherlock was living with the doctor now was not very surprising. Of course he would have been welcome in Mycroft's house. Very welcome actually… But Mycroft hadn't offered it, knowing Sherlock would never accept that. But he wanted to meet their depraved sister? Why the hell?

_You want to visit her? Why? I was told she doesn’t talk anymore. For the better, I would say. And yes, they will have to be informed. I will ask them to come to Whitehall tomorrow. Mycroft_

_Can you arrange it or not? I know she is… well, we saw how she is. But I want to try to get through to her. I'll bring my violin. And let me know when they come so I can attend. SH_

_I will arrange it if you insist. But Sherlock… I did my best to secure her for good now but at the slightest hint something is going on again, please, leave and let me know. And do you really want to join me facing their wrath? Mycroft_

_Thanks. And please – of course I will go there with open eyes. But I'm sure you managed to lock her away safe now. And I can't let you deal with Furious Mummy and Pissed Off Father alone. SH_

Mycroft couldn’t help but smiling. When had his brother ever been so nice to him since he'd become an adult? Never actually.

Perhaps _something_ good had come out of the disaster with Eurus after all. Perhaps Sherlock didn’t see him as his arch enemy anymore at least. He had not shot him when he'd had the chance…

But then his smile died. It had been so close. Sherlock could have been hurt or worse. He would never forgive himself.

_I do appreciate your support, brother mine. I'm sorry for all that happened. For not being able to shoot the governor, for bringing you and Doctor Watson there in the first place. For not being able to contain her in the very first place. Thank you for not being angry at me. You would have every right to be and I won't even mention John. Mycroft_

He knew this text had sounded pathetic and sentimental. But he couldn’t even remember having had such a conversation with his brother before and it touched him more than he would have liked to admit. He felt he had to be open now. And when he read Sherlock's answer, he almost felt like crying.

_No need to apologise, brother mine. Not everybody is able to pull the trigger at a more or less innocent man, and what you did for John was very brave. Silly but brave. It was silly because I could never shoot either of you. I just pretended to play along so my final move would shock her more. She is very smart and you couldn’t foresee this all. John is fine, too, he is a tough guy as you know. Stop blaming yourself. SH_

Mycroft caught himself stroking reverently over the display. Sherlock had no idea how much this meant to him. And of course he might never find out.

_Thank you. I appreciate your understanding very much. My regards to Doctor Watson. I will let you know when you can go to Sherrinford and when our parents will come here. I'm off to a meeting now. Talk soon. Mycroft_

When he came back from said meeting two hours later, a new carton waited in his office. A very rare and very expensive bottle of whiskey. He sighed and sent a _thank you_ message to Lestrade, and then he went home. He ended the day with wrapping himself into the new blanket and drinking a glass of the fine whiskey. The blanket was very comforting and the whiskey was delicious, but somehow it didn’t feel right. When he checked his phone a little later, Lestrade hadn't replied and it was a relief.

*****

Mycroft buried his face in his hands _._

_"Idiot boy!"_

_"Then you are very limited!"_

His mother's nasty remarks, spoken in a tone full of contempt, were echoing in his mind. He didn’t resent her what she'd said – she'd had every right to do it. And still it hurt…

“They didn’t mean it,” Sherlock said from the other side of the desk. He had taken a chair and sat down opposite of him when Mummy and Father had finally left, fuming and shaken about the reveals.

“Yes they did,” Mycroft mumbled into his palms.

“No, they were just shocked and upset. Once they had time to think about it, it will be fine.”

Mycroft wasn’t so sure about that. But he would arrange for Sherlock to go Sherrinford on his own the next day and then for their parents to accompany him two days later if everything worked more or less fine on the first visit.

He really didn’t expect his little sister to ever respond again. She had played her deadly game and she had lost. She had to know she would never have the chance again and so there was no challenge for her to look forward to. He wouldn’t be surprised if she gave herself up completely now. And deep inside he caught himself hoping for that. He didn’t hate her, no. Or did he? She was sick at her soul for sure but she was way too smart to not have known exactly what she'd been doing. She had killed without any reason and without any remorse.

When Sherlock had shot Magnussen for John and his damn wife, he had feared his brother would develop into the same direction. That's why he had sent him away. He would have gotten him back before anything could have happened to him, but the coldness with which he had murdered the blackmailer had shocked him to no end.

He looked at Sherlock's face now, seeing his brother watch him curiously and with a strange additional expression. Sherlock was not like Eurus. He had killed because he had not seen another way out after his stupid and careless game with Magnussen. It wasn't exactly a good reason but Mycroft could see why he had thought he couldn’t act any differently. But Eurus was another dimension of coldness. She didn’t know any remorse, any sympathy and any care for anybody. No matter how little he liked Mrs Hudson, he had to admit she'd been right: his brother was the clear opposite of that, caring too much, not too little. Not for him of course but certainly for Doctor Watson and his late wife.

Sherlock got up. “Believe me, brother, they will apologise for their behaviour in no time.”

“Why should they. They have every right to be angry at me.” He knew he sounded like a whining child full of self-pity and it didn’t suit him, but that's how he was feeling now.

Sherlock shook his head but he didn’t look annoyed. Rather… indulgent. Sherlock indulgent? “You did what you thought was the best way to handle her. And if that makes any difference – I think you were right.”

It meant a lot to him. But still… “I failed them. And I failed you. And if I had put Eurus somewhere else, perhaps…”

“No, Mycroft. Don't do that. You did your best. Your _limited_ best.” Sherlock winked at him and Mycroft surprised himself with grinning about the mockery.

“Yes, my very limited best,” he agreed and a feeling of warmth flooded his heart. When had Sherlock ever teased him like this? There had been no insult in his words, in fact his tone and the look in his blue-green eyes had been amazingly affectionate.

_Don't overreact, man!_

Mycroft grimaced. Sometimes he could have hit his inner voice on the head…

“You alright?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes. I…” A knock at the door interrupted him. “Yes?”

“Sorry sir, another package for you.” Anthea held it up. It was a flat, medium sized carton and it didn’t appear to be overly heavy.

Mycroft sighed and stood up. “Bring it here, please.”

Sherlock eyed him closely. “So you got something before?”

“Yes, it's the third one.” Mycroft searched for the scissors.

“No address, hm?” Sherlock stated after looking at the item. “A secret admirer?”

“Very funny. Not that secret.”

“No? Who is it then?”

“Lestrade.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Oh really?”

“Yes, the man in the post office said it was an older man. And who else should it be? Lestrade tried to comfort me after Sherrinford. Really nice, don't get me wrong, but…”

“You didn’t accept his comfort then?” Sherlock had wrinkled his nose when he had mentioned the description of the sender and his tone was a mixture of casual and curious. Well, he must feel a little strange about the DI fancying his unfanciable brother…

Mycroft searched for the best way to open the carton. Hateful, these things. “No, I sent him away.”

“Didn’t want him to hold your hand?”

He looked up. His brother had a slight grin around the corners of his mouth but the strange expression he couldn’t name was there again as well. “As a matter of fact, no.” _I would rather have **you** hold my hand…_ He pushed this thought away before his cheeks could flush.

He had finally inserted the scissors and started to open the package.

“Well, I better dash,” Sherlock said to his surprise.

He stopped his efforts. “Alright. Thank you for coming and for your support.” Sherlock had tried to soothe their parents. It hadn't worked but he had definitely tried.

“No problem. Talk later,” Sherlock said and then he left, all at once in a hurry, his coat floating around him when he slipped elegantly through the doorframe.

Mycroft stared at the door that had closed behind the tall, slim figure for embarrassingly long before he concentrated on the carton again. When he had finally managed to open it up, he saw that it contained a rather big frame. Silver as it seemed. Antique. He took it out and froze. There was a photograph in the frame. He knew it.

It showed him and Sherlock as sixteen- respective nine year olds… He, dead-serious expression, a suit that looked way too posh for a boy his age, and Sherlock with a pretty smile, which was very rare on photographs, his hair a messy mop.

He let himself drop onto his chair and then winced when his phone vibrated.

_Sorry, I missed your text as my phone didn’t work. Not sure what you mean? I didn’t send you anything. Shame on me, I guess. X Greg_

But he had accepted his thanks for the blanket! Mycroft thought but then he shook his head over himself. He had not mentioned the gift, and Lestrade had thought he was talking about him trying to spend him comfort that night in the helicopter.

Sherlock. Sherlock had sent him the blanket, the whiskey and the frame.

A thick, beautiful, comforting blanket, a bottle of very expensive alcohol and a precious frame with a picture of them both.

 _He loves me_ , Mycroft thought. That's what this is about. He is reaching out to me because he loves me.

_But in which way does he love you?_

Yes, that was the question… It was all so innocent. Of course Sherlock's obvious feelings for him made him feel wonderful; even if they were only brotherly it would be a milestone in their relationship.

But…

But Sherlock had not let him know the packages were coming from him.

But he had sounded so strange when he had asked about Lestrade.

But he had left before Mycroft had wrapped out the frame.

Of course – he could have been embarrassed, thinking his sentiment-despising brother wouldn’t appreciate the gesture.

And still he had made these gifts. And now Mycroft had to find out what that meant.

 

# 2

 

“Oh, hi Mycroft. Any emergencies?”

“Doctor Watson. No, I just had a meeting not far from here and I thought… I should drop by and see how you two are doing. Three, I mean. Your daughter.” He was babbling in his nervousness.

“Rosie. Come on in.” John gestured into the hallway and Mycroft walked into the flat. It was rather small and not very tidy, which wasn’t a surprise considering a small child was living here, not even mentioning his brother who wasn't famous for being neat.

Mycroft tensed when John put his hand onto his back. He didn’t like that. Nobody ever touched him and he was fine with it. Of course that didn’t mean there wasn’t someone for whose touch he indeed longed, and he was either getting closer to that than ever before or about to finally bury the hope he could ever get it.

He stopped dead when they had reached the living room and almost turned around to leave. Sherlock was sitting in an armchair, the baby on his lap, Molly Hooper on the couch next to them, beaming at them.

 _I love you_ , echoed in his mind. Words, spoken more convincingly than he had wanted to admit to himself. Sure, Molly had forced Sherlock to say them, and Mycroft had thought Sherlock was just a good actor and she would have suffered by hearing them, knowing he didn’t mean it. But here she was, looking happy, and it made him feel sick. He realised that he had been a fool once more, thinking Sherlock's gifts meant he loved him the same way he had started to love his brother when Sherlock had been not older than fourteen.

Mycroft had been on a visit at their parents' house from university, and Sherlock had come into his room to show him the results of the experiment he had talked about earlier. It had been a hot August day, and Sherlock had only worn a pair of black shorts. The sun had tanned his usually pale skin to a beautiful gold, his eyes had been sparkling with pride and satisfaction, and he had smiled at Mycroft happily, and Mycroft's heart had skipped a beat at his beauty, his natural charisma and the admiration he had seen in his eyes, these fascinating oceans of blue-greenness. And he had seen that Sherlock was about to become a man and that he didn’t see his little brother when he looked at him but a desirable, worthy, wonderful creature he wanted to possess.

He had been terrified about himself and it had taken all of his willpower to push these sinful thoughts away and concentrate on Sherlock and his explanations, and Sherlock had noticed that he had not been a hundred percent there and had been disappointed as of course he'd had no idea why. He must have thought Mycroft didn’t care about his experiment and of course it had hurt him.

It had been the beginning of the end, inevitably. From that day on, Mycroft had kept more distance and little by little, their brotherly connection had vanished and one day Sherlock had turned to the drugs instead, and from then on their relationship had become worse and worse until the day of the explosion when Sherlock had shown him that he in fact did care.

_"Yeah, you were great."_

_"You really think so?"_

_"Yes, I really do."_

_"Well, that's good to know. I've always wondered.”_

_Wondered if you care. Now it's clear that you do, as amazing as it is._

But not enough. Not in the right way. He was really just hopelessly stupid these days.

“Hello, Mycroft!” Sherlock greeted him, and Mycroft thought vaguely that he did look pleased to see him.

“Mr Holmes,” Molly said quietly.

“Good evening, Sherlock, Miss Hooper.” He shifted on his feet, only longing to get out of here. “I just… I just thought… I wanted… Thank you, Sherlock,” he choked out. Why had he come here? Why not ask Sherlock to meet him somewhere private? Or just text or call him? Was he completely out of his mind?

Sherlock's disturbing eyes bored into his ones as if to dig in his mind. “You're welcome, brother mine,” he said softly.

“Very nice of you, really,” Mycroft stammered. He cleared his throat. “I arranged your visit to Eurus. The helicopter is awaiting you at eleven tomorrow morning. I’ll have a car pick you up here.”

“Oh, that's great, thanks!”

Mycroft nodded and then he turned around. “I'll go then,” he mumbled, almost running into John, who looked very confused.

“Um, you can stay! I have whiskey. Or tea. Whatever you like.”

Mycroft turned his face to him. “Thank you, Doctor Watson. Maybe next time.” And then he nearly ran to the door and left the flat, his heart hammering and aching hellishly.

He returned to Whitehall and tried to concentrate on his work again. A report about the problems in Nigeria. It was nothing urgent and he had planned to glance at it the next morning, but he couldn’t go home now.

Nobody was in this part of the building anymore and the silence should have helped him to focus on the matter, but his heart was still hurting, as stupid as it was. He'd had time for over twenty years to get rid of his wrong feelings for his brother; one should expect that was enough.

He drank tea and when he almost spilled it over his keyboard as his hand was shaking from sheer exhaustion and heartbreak, he gave up. He called for the driver to bring him home where he would take two sleeping pills and go to bed.

*****

When he opened up with his key, he froze. The alarm was off and he could sense someone's presence in his house. He grabbed his umbrella tighter and slowly moved forward. Then he stopped. There was music coming from the living room - Mozart. A robber who put on classical music while he was rummaging through his belongings?

He entered the room and the first thing he saw was a black coat, draped over a chair and he lowered the hand with the umbrella.

“Oh, there you are,” Sherlock said and stood up from the armchair he'd been sitting in. “I allowed myself to pour us a drink.” He gestured at a full glass on the table and raised his own.

Mycroft leaned his weapon against the couch and stepped towards the table. He slipped out of his coat and carelessly let it join Sherlock's. “Very considerate of you,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant and as if there was nothing to it to come home and find his brother in his house, providing him with a drink. He picked up the glass, said _cheers_ and took a sip. He definitely needed it.

Then he sat down on the couch, with the table between himself and his brother, who had let himself drop into the armchair again after slipping out of his jacket.

They looked at each other for a few uncomfortable seconds.

What did Sherlock want here? Explain him that he was a half of a couple now? Mycroft had always thought his brother was as gay as he was. Could he have deduced him so wrong? Obviously yes. And it wasn't the first time that he had thought his little brother was interested in a female after all.

“It's not the whiskey I sent you,” Sherlock broke the silence and looked at the glistening liquid in his glass. “Thought you might want to save it for a special occasion.”

Mycroft nodded. What sort of occasion did he mean? A rendezvous? With whom?

He didn’t ask him. “These presents… They were very considerate. I… did open the bottle already. You can have some.”

“No, this is fine.”

“The picture is still in my office. I might put it onto my desk.”

“Oh, you don't have to, you know. I just thought…” Sherlock broke off.

 _He's nervous_. Mycroft's pulse sped up. But then his mood sank again. Molly…

“Molly has recovered from the… events,” Sherlock said as if he had read his mind. “Says it freed her, telling me this.”

“It… freed her?”

“Yes, strange, these normal people with their neat little brains and emotional hearts,” Sherlock continued, raising his eyebrows. “She said now that she got it out of her system and heard me saying it, she can finally move on.”

“I don't understand.”

“Well, ask me! How it could help her to get over me by listening to me lying to her, I don't know. But I'm glad it worked. She's a great woman. She deserves to be happy.”

“But…”

“Yes?” Sherlock stared into his eyes in this disconcerting way once more. “You thought she was there, sitting close to me, because she is my girlfriend now? Come on, Mycroft. I was never interested in women.”

“Except for _The Woman_.” Mycroft had almost forgotten about her over the years. Back then he had thought Sherlock was really interested in her; he knew he had saved her in the end. But he had ordered to be informed if she ever came back to England, and it had never happened, and he was sure Sherlock had never seen her again. He had thought Sherlock had just been curious, longing for her but not daring to make a move, torn because of his real sexuality and the fact that she was a criminal whore. But now, since they were talking about this subject… “I know she's not dead…”

“Ah, Irene. Her mind and creativity in getting what she wanted impressed me, I have to admit. And I didn’t want to see her killed after she had fallen in love with me and fucked up her game because of these unfortunate feelings.”

That made sense. “So… No wishes to… bond with her in another way?” How had it happened that they were talking about this so openly? They'd never had such a conversation before.

Sherlock shook his head. “No. Not in the least. John thinks that too but he doesn't quite know me as well as he thinks.”

“So what else does he not know?” The question had come out of his mouth before he could think it through.

Sherlock bit his lip and shifted on his chair. He was _very_ nervous, so much was sure. “Whom I'm really interested in…” he finally mumbled.

Mycroft's heart was beating way too fast now. What would he hear now? That Sherlock had fallen for Lestrade? John himself, God forbid? For anyone Mycroft didn’t even know? Or… “Who is it, Sherlock?” he dared ask. It was now or never. It would be his biggest joy or his deepest fall.

His brother's voice was almost inaudible when he answered. “You know…” The detective was avoiding looking at him, obviously hesitant to directly say it.

Mycroft almost passed out. “Oh… Did… Did that happen only recently?” He was still not sure Sherlock really meant him. How _could_ he?

Sherlock shook his head vehemently. “No. It's been like that for a very long time. But only a few days ago I understood… I mean I took into consideration…”

“…that he might feel the same for you?” Still he couldn’t say _I_.

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed. “He… I hurt him and still he was pleased when I told him I had liked something he had done a long time ago…”

Was Sherlock referring to mentioning that he had enjoyed Mycroft's impersonation of _Lady Bracknell_? Or was he talking about something that had happened between him and the doctor? They hadn't been exactly close after Mary's death… Mycroft would have punished the little man severely if it hadn't been for another case of Sherlock's inexplicable forgiveness towards everybody who was named Watson.

“And then,” Sherlock continued, “he was so brave. He's so decent. He couldn’t kill anyone when he was forced to do it…”

His refusal to shoot the governor? Still he could talk about John who had done exactly the same in the end.

“…but then he offered to die so someone else could live.”

Damn, in fact he could _still_ talk about John. John had agreed with Mycroft that he was the one who had to die after all, _soldiers_ and this shit!

“Dammit, Mycroft, don't make it so hard for me!” Sherlock burst out and smashed his glass onto the table. “I mean _you_ of course! It was always you!”

Mycroft let his own glass he had clung to very hard just drop onto the thick carpet. The whiskey wetted his foot but he couldn’t have cared less. He slowly got up and walked around the table, ignoring his squishy sock.

Sherlock stood up as well and then they were standing opposite of each other, only centimetres apart. Their eyes met for a look unlike any other they had shared in their long life together, resentments and heartaches crumbled and vanished under gazes full of mutual love and longing. There was no need for Mycroft to ask if Sherlock had loved him for as long as he'd loved him because it was obvious, and instead of terrifying and scaring him (or making him wanting to bang his head against the wall for missing it), it filled his soul with gratitude and a happiness he had never known, and then Sherlock's arms were around his neck and they kissed each other for the very first time and after a rather cautious, probing, testing start, they kissed as if there was no tomorrow – but of course this was just the beginning and there would be many, many tomorrows to come.

 

# 3

 

He smiled when Sherlock picked up the blanket that had been lying on a chair, neatly folded, and put it under his free arm to take it upstairs when they finally disentangled. There was no need to ask what was about to happen now.

Of course it still felt surreal to Mycroft. He had never expected this. But he embraced it, and the events of Sherrinford only increased his will to make this work.

It wouldn’t be easy, oh no. Not only because they would have to hide their love from everybody but because they had a long tradition of driving each other crazy with their habits and Mycroft knew this hadn't been only self-protection and playing a part. They were brothers and they were each other's equal in terms of intelligence, but they were very different in almost everything else. But hell, it would make it even more interesting.

His brother's hands were fumbling with his tie as soon as he had put the blanket onto the bed. Mycroft watched his long fingers with a smile; as elegant as they were and as virtuously they used to play the violin, his brother clearly had no experience with taking men's ties off. When Sherlock started to impatiently rip at it, Mycroft took matters into his own hands before he could get strangled.

“Patience, brother dear,” he said with a smirk and quickly removed the revolting tie.

“Why do you have to wear such a uniform at all?” Sherlock complained, his hands now busy sliding off Mycroft's sleeve garters.

“It makes me feel… I don't know…”

“Untouchable? Icemannish?”

“Sort of, yes. And to my defence, I didn’t know which pleasant surprise was waiting for me here, brother dear.”

“You're excused.”

“Very generous. Before you rip off my shirt now, why don't you leave that with me and take care of your own…” He broke off when Sherlock removed his own clothing in a time sufficient for a world record. “Never mind.”

Sherlock grinned and stepped out of his pants, removing his socks in the go to be completely naked within the blink of an eye.

Mycroft's throat got dry. He was so… amazing. Stunning. Beautiful. Handsome.

And then his look fell on Sherlock's chest. A big, red scar, prominent against his pale skin. The remains of Mary Bloody Watson shooting at him.

It had been so close. In fact, Sherlock had been clinically dead. Mycroft had only heard about it a day later and it had almost destroyed him. If he had known who had shot at Sherlock, Mary would have died a lot sooner. But when he had found out, Sherlock had clearly forgiven her, God knew why, and he had not wanted to interfere anymore. But it had been pleasant to see her die while saving Sherlock from Vivian Norbury.

His hand reached out to touch the thick scar, and Sherlock's eyes became self-conscious. “It's not pretty, I know,” he said, missing the point completely.

He was so vulnerable, his little brother, running into every danger, risking his life for his friends and the thrill of the chase. And Mycroft of all people had brought him to Sherrinford, directly into the heart of danger. The guilt hit him once more and even harder than before. Sherlock could have _died_. Several times before but because of him of all people only days ago. He could have died for his arrogance and carelessness, and his loss would have literally broken Mycroft's heart.

His arousal had vanished and he could feel his eyes getting wet to his devastation. He couldn’t cry in front of Sherlock… Never and certainly not now!

“Brother…,” Sherlock whispered, “…come to me. It's fine.”

“No, it's not, oh God, I'm such a bloody failure…”

“No, you are not! Come here now, here you go.”

The blanket was wrapped around Mycroft and Sherlock took him in his arms, and he was embraced by the soft fabric and the hard, warm body of his brother.

Mycroft struggled a bit, feeling embarrassed to the core, but then he gave in and buried his face in Sherlock's neck. He breathed him in, his lips pressing on his deliciously smelling skin.

Sherlock held him close and lifted one hand to stroke over his hair. “A lot of history here, Mycroft,” he rumbled. “Not so easy to deal with it. But I'm not going anywhere. I didn’t die when I was shot, I didn’t die in Sherrinford, and I will not die anytime soon given I've finally gotten what I wanted for so long.”

Mycroft was glad but not surprised that after his short moment of confusion Sherlock had deduced his thoughts and fears correctly instead of assuming he was having second thoughts.

“Sherrinford was not your fault,” Sherlock continued, stressing his words. “I told you before and I will tell you again until you believe it. I'll even go back there to make a connection with our sister. If that will work out or not is another question, but I want you to stop blaming yourself. Our parents shouldn’t have done it, either, but you can't do much about that. But I won't watch you torturing yourself with guilty feelings when we have so much better things to do.”

Mycroft smiled against his neck. “And what could that be?”

“Shagging each other senseless would be my first option,” Sherlock said, crude and direct and arousing in equal measures. “I've waited so long to get my hands on you, and damn, I don't want to wait any longer. But of course – if you don't feel like that now, we can just cuddle and talk or just cuddle or…”

He didn’t get any further with this untypically not-eloquent rant as Mycroft claimed his mouth in another deep kiss. Sherlock was right. They couldn’t change the past and feeling guilty was a waste of time after all. He could only try to make things better for the future, and he would. And if his brother wanted them to explore each other now, it was the least he could do for him to make it up to him. His stupidity and leading them into danger with open eyes…

_Damn, not again!_

“Don't think now, Mycroft. For once in your life, stop your nasty little brain.”

Mycroft grinned. “Not little.”

“No. In fact nothing is little about you.”

“Oh, that.” Mycroft looked down on his crotch. Sherlock's long fingers were wrapping around his cock, and he was stunned how quickly it filled out again.

“That's a good boy,” Sherlock mumbled.

It was awesome. A minute before he had been close to crying and now he was grinning like a fool with a hard cock. He briefly wondered if he was going to survive this emotional and – obviously - sexual rollercoaster but damn, he would definitely do his best.

“I've never done that before,” Sherlock mumbled.

“That's fine with me. I'd love to be your first.”

“You're not my _first_ , Mycroft.” Sherlock searched his gaze. “You're my _only one_.”

Just for one second, Mycroft considered the possibility that they had both died in Sherrinford – Mycroft by sacrificing himself for Sherlock and his brother at Eurus' hands, and that this was his reward in the afterlife. But then he reminded himself that it was simply really happening, and he would _not_ mess it up.

*****

 _He's so wonderful…_ The thought repeated in his brain over and over again while his mouth laid claim on his brother's beautiful, spread out body. Mycroft didn’t get enough of kissing, nibbling, licking, teasing, sucking and caressing the muscular, smooth body – the edgy collarbones, the prominent pecs, the small, stiff nipples, the scar so damn close to his heart, the clearly visible ribs, the fine line of hair from his pert little navel to his neatly trimmed pubes, his strong, toned thighs and, of course, his hard, proud prick, big and swollen and sticky at the tip.

Sherlock wriggled under his tender and sometimes rougher touches, his beautifully formed lips parted and the tip of his tongue was poking out in excitement almost all the time, and Mycroft repeatedly lifted his head to claim his soft mouth again and again and let his own lips play with Sherlock's delicate ears or kissing his nose or the exceptionally soft skin between his eyes and his brows.

His brother was a piece of art. He'd always known that but now that the detective was all his, he finally allowed himself to really see him with the eyes of love. He had always tried to protect his heart, thinking he would never be in this situation, and he hadn't even allowed himself to seriously fantasize about having sex with Sherlock ever before. Of course, many times over all these years he had woken up from dreaming about it, the sheets sticky from his desperate release, Sherlock's name on his lips when he had left the realm of sleep to face the fact that he was alone.

There had been men in his life before, if one wanted to call it that. It had all been brief and very safe encounters with strangers who had been attracted to him but who had not been emotionally interested in him. Mycroft had always been able to deduce that correctly and still he had totally failed in deducing Sherlock's feelings for him. But then – of course Sherlock had known how to misguide him. When he thought of Sherlock's drug escapades in his younger years, it became clear to him that his baby brother had obviously failed in protecting _his_ heart though, and it almost killed Mycroft. Yet another thing to be sorry for, another part of his life where he had totally failed, and it had put Sherlock in danger and had made himself suffer with the fear of losing him and above all for nothing as Sherlock had loved him the same way all the time…

“What did I say about thinking?” Sherlock groaned, teasingly slapping Mycroft's cheek.

“Sorry, brother mine. It's not that easy.”

“Of course it isn't. But clever as you are, you'll learn it. And now fuck me.”

Mycroft almost bit his lip bloody; he had never heard Sherlock using such an expression and the thought of really physically possessing him made his head spin. “You're sure?”

“Of course I'm sure. Prepare me if you must but don't let me wait too long!”

“What did _I_ say about patience?”

“Can't remember, must have deleted it. Please, Mycroft. I want you in me now.”

“You know if you keep talking like this, I'll be finished before I can even start preparing you…”

“Then you'll have to be ready again very quickly and in the meantime you can use your endless fingers to open me up.”

“You're overestimating my potency, dear, middle age and all.” Mycroft rummaged in his drawer and finally found the small bottle of lube that he used when he – very rarely – allowed himself to take care of his own – so far almost inexistent – needs.

“My beauty and sexiness should absolutely make up for that,” Sherlock claimed, and Mycroft smiled.

“You have a point. And now be prepared for something cold in your hottest part.”

“Speaking of dirty talking… Oooh!”

Mycroft grinned and brushed a kiss on his forehead before he seriously went to work.

*****

Mycroft had topped men before but he had never felt like this. He had never shared such a gaze with any of them – eyes locked, feelings on display (of course there hadn't been any feelings to begin with), mouths kissing again and again while he was sinking deeper and deeper into this incredible tight but welcoming heat.

At first he had asked Sherlock every few seconds if he was alright but then he had stopped as Sherlock's face told him he absolutely was, and when he had been halfway seated in him, Sherlock had started to push his hips with his feet and now he was sliding in the last inches.

“How does that feel?” he asked him between kisses.

“So strange… The pressure, the intrusion… You're big, you know.”

“Shall I…”

“Don't you dare!” The green-blue eyes were sparkling with protest, lust and excitement.

Mycroft smiled. “I'm in completely now.” He stilled, giving Sherlock time to get adjusted to being claimed like this.

“God, yes. I never… I always wanted it, with you, but I never thought it would feel so great.”

“I'm very glad to hear that.”

“Did… Did you do it before?”

“You mean receiving? No.”

“Should have known. You wouldn’t give up your arse for anybody.”

“Not for anybody, no. But I will certainly do it for you.”

“Oh, great! And now move, brother!”

Mycroft grinned and then he slowly, oh-so carefully started rocking his hips and he observed with amazement how Sherlock's facial expressions changed, mirroring all his feelings of being stimulated and taken, and then Sherlock groaned deep in his throat when he changed the angle more or less accidentally, and he hurried to push into him the same way again, earning the same pleasant reaction, and he knew he had hit this certain spot, and he did it again and again with increasingly deep thrusts until Sherlock cried out and his muscles contracted hard around Mycroft's almost achingly throbbing cock and his younger brother came in strong spurts all over his own chest, and the pressure ripped his own orgasm out of Mycroft and he moaned while he was releasing shot after shot into his brother's body, their mouths meeting for another deep, frantic kiss.

Mycroft all the more collapsed on Sherlock's body, his cock still deep inside him, and he smiled when Sherlock managed to cover them both with a part of the blanket. His back was engulfed by soft warmth while his front was squished against the mess on Sherlock's chest and stomach; he felt sweaty and spent and absolutely and thoroughly happy and grateful for receiving the most precious gift he could imagine – his brother's love.

 

The End (of this story but just the beginning of endless sexy times for the beautiful, brilliant, charismatic and exciting Holmes brothers)

 

 


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